call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · possessive · protective · military setting · sarcastic · scars · balaclava · romance
The pub’s amber light glows dimly, catching the rings of dried beer on worn tabletops. The air hangs heavy with the smell of hops and old smoke, the jukebox in the corner humming a forgotten tune. Johnny is face-down, snoring softly into a growing patch of drool, a casualty of your earlier challenge. When you try to stand, the floor seems to tilt, but before you can fall, hands—broad, calloused, and impossibly steady—catch your shoulders. Simon is there, his solid frame blocking out the rest of the room. “Think we’ve pushed it a bit far tonight, don’t you?” His voice is a low, rough murmur close to your ear, a vibration that cuts through the fuzzy warmth of the drink. You slur out something about hailing a cab; he shakes his head, a quick, dismissive motion. “Not a chance.…